Lord Kilgobbin

Amongst the strange situations in life, there are few stranger, or, in certain respects, more painful, than the meeting after long absence of those who, when they had parted years before, were on terms of closest intimacy, and who now see each other changed by time, with altered habits and manners, and impressed in a variety of ways with influences and associations which impart their own stamp on character.

It is very difficult at such moments to remember how far we ourselves have changed in the interval, and how much of what we regard as altered in another may not simply be the new standpoint from which we are looking, and thus our friend may be graver, or sadder, or more thoughtful, or, as it may happen, seem less reflective and less considerative than we have thought him, all because the world has been meantime dealing with ourselves in such wise that qualities we once cared for have lost much of their value, and others that we had deemed of slight account have grown into importance with us.

Most of us know the painful disappointment of revisiting scenes which had impressed us strongly in early life: how the mountain we regarded with a wondering admiration had become a mere hill, and the romantic tarn a pool of sluggish water; and some of this same awakening pursues us in our renewal of old intimacies, and we find ourselves continually warring with our recollections.

Besides this, there is another source of uneasiness that presses unceasingly. It is in imputing every change we discover, or think we discover in our friend, to some unknown influences that have asserted their power over him in our absence, and thus when we find that our arguments have lost their old force, and our persuasions can be stoutly resisted, we begin to think that some other must have usurped our place, and that there is treason in the heart we had deemed to be loyally our own.

How far Kate and Gorman suffered under these irritations, I do not stop to inquire, but certain it is, that all their renewed intercourse was little other than snappish reminders of unfavourable change in each, and assurances more frank than flattering that they had not improved in the interval.

‘How well I know every tree and alley of this old garden!’ said he, as they strolled along one of the walks in advance of the others. ‘Nothing is changed here but the people.’

‘And do you think we are?’ asked she quietly.

‘I should think I do! Not so much for your father, perhaps. I suppose men of his time of life change little, if at all; but you are as ceremonious as if I had been introduced to you this morning.’

‘You addressed me so deferentially as Miss Kearney, and with such an assuring little intimation that you were not either very certain of that, that I should have been very courageous indeed to remind you that I once was Kate.’

‘No, not Kate – Kitty,’ rejoined he quickly.

‘Oh yes, perhaps, when you were young, but we grew out of that.’

‘Did we? And when?’

‘When we gave up climbing cherry-trees, and ceased to pull each other’s hair when we were angry.’

‘Oh dear!’ said he drearily, as his head sank heavily.

‘You seem to sigh over those blissful times, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she, ‘as if they were terribly to be regretted.’

‘So they are. So I feel them.’

‘I never knew before that quarrelling left such pleasant associations.’

‘My memory is good enough to remember times when we were not quarrelling – when I used to think you were nearer an angel than a human creature – ay, when I have had the boldness to tell you so.’

‘You don’t mean that?’

‘I do mean it, and I should like to know why I should not mean it?’

‘For a great many reasons – one amongst the number, that it would have been highly indiscreet to turn a poor child’s head with a stupid flattery.’

‘But were you a child? If I’m right, you were not very far from fifteen at the time I speak of.’

‘How shocking that you should remember a young lady’s age!’

‘That is not the point at all,’ said he, as though she had been endeavouring to introduce another issue.

‘And what is the point, pray?’ asked she haughtily.

‘Well, it is this – how many have uttered what you call stupid flatteries since that time, and how have they been taken.’

‘Is this a question?’ asked she. ‘I mean a question seeking to be answered?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Assuredly, then, Mr. O’Shea, however time has been dealing with me, it has contrived to take marvellous liberties with you since we met. Do you know, sir, that this is a speech you would not have uttered long ago for worlds?’

‘If I have forgotten myself as well as you,’ said he, with deep humility, ‘I very humbly crave pardon. Not but there were days, ‘added he, ‘when my mistake, if I made one, would have been forgiven without my asking.’

‘There’s a slight touch of presumption, sir, in telling me what a wonderful person I used to think you long ago.’

‘So you did,’ cried he eagerly. ‘In return for the homage I laid at your feet – as honest an adoration as ever a heart beat with – you condescended to let me build my ambitions before you, and I must own you made the edifice very dear to me.’

‘To be sure, I do remember it all, and I used to play or sing, “Mein Schatz ist ein Reiter,” and take your word that you were going to be a Lancer —

“In file arrayed,With helm and blade,And plume in the gay wind dancing.”

I’m certain my cousin would be charmed to see you in all your bravery.’

‘Your cousin will not speak to me for being an Austrian.’

‘Has she told you so?’

‘Yes, she said it at breakfast.’

‘That denunciation does not sound very dangerously; is it not worth your while to struggle against a misconception?’

‘I have had such luck in my present attempt as should scarcely raise my courage.’

‘You are too ingenious by far for me, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she carelessly. ‘I neither remember so well as you, nor have I that nice subtlety in detecting all the lapses each of us has made since long ago. Try, however, if you cannot get on better with Mademoiselle Kostalergi, where there are no antecedents to disturb you.’

‘I will; that is if she let me.’

‘I trust she may, and not the less willingly, perhaps, as she evidently will not speak to Mr. Walpole.’

‘Ah, indeed, and is he here?’ he stopped and hesitated; and the full bold look she gave him did not lessen his embarrassment.

‘Well, sir,’ asked she, ‘go on: is this another reminiscence?’

‘No, Miss Kearney; I was only thinking of asking you who this Mr. Walpole was.’

‘Mr. Cecil Walpole is a nephew or a something to the Lord-Lieutenant, whose private secretary he is. He is very clever, very amusing – sings, draws, rides, and laughs at the Irish to perfection. I hope you mean to like him.’

‘Do you?’

‘Of course, or I should not have bespoken your sympathy. My cousin used to like him, but somehow he has fallen out of favour with her.’

‘Was he absent some time?’ asked he, with a half-cunning manner.

‘Yes, I believe there was something of that in it. He was not here for a considerable time, and when we saw him again, we almost owned we were disappointed. Papa is calling me from the window, pray excuse me for a moment.’ She left him as she spoke, and ran rapidly back to the house, whence she returned almost immediately. ‘It was to ask you to stop and dine here, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she. ‘There will be ample time to send back to Miss O’Shea, and if you care to have your dinner-dress, they can send it.’

‘This is Mr. Kearney’s invitation?’ asked he.

‘Of course; papa is the master at Kilgobbin.’

‘But will Miss Kearney condescend to say that it is hers also.’

‘Certainly, though I’m not aware what solemnity the engagement gains by my co-operation.’

‘I accept at once, and if you allow me, I’ll go back and send a line to my aunt to say so.’

‘Don’t you remember Mr. O’Shea, Dick?’ asked she, as her brother lounged up, making his first appearance that day.

‘I’d never have known you,’ said he, surveying him from head to foot, without, however, any mark of cordiality in the recognition.

‘All find me a good deal changed!’ said the young fellow, drawing himself to his full height, and with an air that seemed to say – ‘and none the worse for it.’

‘I used to fancy I was more than your match,’ rejoined Dick, smiling; ‘I suspect it’s a mistake I am little likely to incur again.’

‘Don’t, Dick, for he has got a very ugly way of ridding people of their illusions,’ said Kate, as she turned once more and walked rapidly towards the house.

CHAPTER XLI

TWO FAMILIAR EPISTLES

There were a number of bolder achievements Gorman O’Shea would have dared rather than write a note; nor were the cares of the composition the only difficulties of the undertaking. He knew of but one style of correspondence – the report to his commanding officer, and in this he was aided by a formula to be filled up. It was not, then, till after several efforts, he succeeded in the following familiar epistle: —

‘KILGOBBIN CASTLE.

‘DEAR AUNT, – Don’t blow up or make a rumpus, but if I had not taken the mare and come over here this morning, the rascally police with their search-warrant might have been down upon Mr. Kearney without a warning. They were all stiff and cold enough at first: they are nothing to brag of in the way of cordiality even yet – Dick especially – but they have asked me to stay and dine, and, I take it, it is the right thing to do. Send me over some things to dress with – and believe me your affectionate nephew,

‘G. O’SHEA.

‘I send the mare back, and shall walk home to-morrow morning.

‘There’s a great Castle swell here, a Mr. Walpole, but I have not made his acquaintance yet, and can tell nothing about him.’

Towards a late hour of the afternoon a messenger arrived with an ass-cart and several trunks from O’Shea’s Barn, and with the following note: —

‘DEAR NEPHEW GORMAN, – O’Shea’s Barn is not an inn, nor are the horses there at public livery. So much for your information. As you seem fond of “warnings,” let me give you one, which is, To mind your own affairs in preference to the interests of other people. The family at Kilgobbin are perfectly welcome – so far as I am concerned – to the fascinations of your society at dinner to-day, at breakfast to-morrow, and so on, with such regularity and order as the meals succeed. To which end, I have now sent you all the luggage belonging to you here. – I am, very respectfully, your aunt, ELIZABETH O’SHEA.’

The quaint, old-fashioned, rugged writing was marked throughout by a certain distinctness and accuracy that betoken care and attention – there was no evidence whatever of haste or passion – and this expression of a serious determination, duly weighed and resolved on, made itself very painfully felt by the young man as he read.

‘I am turned out – in plain words, turned out!’ said he aloud, as he sat with the letter spread out before him. ‘It must have been no common quarrel – not a mere coldness between the families – when she resents my coming here in this fashion.’ That innumerable differences could separate neighbours in Ireland, even persons with the same interests and the same religion, he well knew, and he solaced himself to think how he could get at the source of this disagreement, and what chance there might be of a reconciliation.

Of one thing he felt certain. Whether his aunt were right or wrong, whether tyrant or victim, he knew in his heart all the submission must come from the others. He had only to remember a few of the occasions in life in which he had to entreat his aunt’s forgiveness for the injustice she had herself inflicted, to anticipate what humble pie Mathew Kearney must partake of in order to conciliate Miss Betty’s favour.

‘Meanwhile,’ he thought, and not only thought, but said too – ‘Meanwhile, I am on the world.’

Up to this, she had allowed him a small yearly income. Father Luke, whose judgment on all things relating to continental life was unimpeachable, had told her that anything like the reputation of being well off or connected with wealthy people would lead a young man into ruin in the Austrian service; that with a sum of 3000 francs per annum – about £120 – he would be in possession of something like the double of his pay, or rather more, and that with this he would be enabled to have all the necessaries and many of the comforts of his station, and still not be a mark for that high play and reckless style of living that certain young Hungarians of family and large fortune affected; and so far the priest was correct, for the young Gorman was wasteful and extravagant from disposition, and his quarter’s allowance disappeared almost when it came. His money out, he fell back at once to the penurious habits of the poorest subaltern about him, and lived on his florin-and-half per diem till his resources came round again. He hoped – of course he hoped – that this momentary fit of temper would not extend to stopping his allowance.

‘She knows as well as any one,’ muttered he, ‘that though the baker’s son from Prague, or the Amtmann’s nephew from a Bavarian Dorf, may manage to “come through” with his pay, the young Englishman cannot. I can neither piece my own overalls, nor forswear stockings, nor can I persuade my stomach that it has had a full meal by tightening my girth-strap three or four holes.

‘I’d go down to the ranks to-morrow rather than live that life of struggle and contrivance that reduces a man to playing a dreary game with himself, by which, while he feels like a pauper, he has to fancy he felt like a gentleman. No, no, I’ll none of this. Scores of better men have served in the ranks. I’ll just change my regiment. By a lucky chance, I don’t know a man in the Walmoden Cuirassiers. I’ll join them, and nobody will ever be the wiser.’

There is a class of men who go through life building very small castles, and are no more discouraged by the frailty of the architecture than is a child with his toy-house. This was Gorman’s case; and now that he had found a solution of his difficulties in the Walmoden Cuirassiers, he really dressed for dinner in very tolerable spirits. ‘It’s droll enough,’ thought he, ‘to go down to dine amongst all these “swells,” and to think that the fellow behind my chair is better off than myself.’ The very uncertainty of his fate supplied excitement to his spirits, for it is amongst the privileges of the young that mere flurry can be pleasurable.

When Gorman reached the drawing-room, he found only one person. This was a young man in a shooting-coat, who, deep in the recess of a comfortable arm-chair, sat with the Times at his feet, and to all appearance as if half dozing.

He looked around, however, as young O’Shea came forward, and said carelessly, ‘I suppose it’s time to go and dress – if I could.’

O’Shea making no reply, the other added, ‘That is, if I have not overslept dinner altogether.’

‘I hope not, sincerely,’ rejoined the other, ‘or I shall be a partner in the misfortune.’

‘Ah, you ‘re the Austrian,’ said Walpole, as he stuck his glass in his eye and surveyed him.

‘Yes; and you are the private secretary of the Governor.’

‘Only we don’t call him Governor. We say Viceroy here.’

‘With all my heart, Viceroy be it.’

There was a pause now – each, as it were, standing on his guard to resent any liberty of the other. At last Walpole said, ‘I don’t think you were in the house when that stupid stipendiary fellow called here this morning?’

‘No; I was strolling across the fields. He came with the police, I suppose?’

‘Yes, he came on the track of some Fenian leader – a droll thought enough anywhere out of Ireland, to search for a rebel under a magistrate’s roof; not but there was something still more Irish in the incident.’

‘How was that?’ asked O’Shea eagerly.

‘I chanced to be out walking with the ladies when the escort came, and as they failed to find the man they were after, they proceeded to make diligent search for his papers and letters. That taste for practical joking, that seems an instinct in this country, suggested to Mr. Kearney to direct the fellows to my room, and what do you think they have done? Carried off bodily all my baggage, and left me with nothing but the clothes I’m wearing!’

‘What a lark!’ cried O’Shea, laughing.

‘Yes, I take it that is the national way to look at these things; but that passion for absurdity and for ludicrous situations has not the same hold on us English.’

‘I know that. You are too well off to be droll.’

‘Not exactly that; but when we want to laugh we go to the Adelphi.’

‘Heaven help you if you have to pay people to make fun for you!’

Before Walpole could make rejoinder, the door opened to admit the ladies, closely followed by Mr. Kearney and Dick.

‘Not mine the fault if I disgrace your dinner-table by such a costume as this,’ cried Walpole.

‘I’d have given twenty pounds if they’d have carried off yourself as the rebel!’ said the old man, shaking with laughter. ‘But there’s the soup on the table. Take my niece, Mr. Walpole; Gorman, give your arm to my daughter. Dick and I will bring up the rear.’

CHAPTER XLII

AN EVENING IN THE DRAWING-ROOM

The fatalism of youth, unlike that of age, is all rose-coloured. That which is coming, and is decreed to come, cannot be very disagreeable. This is the theory of the young, and differs terribly from the experiences of after-life. Gorman O’Shea had gone to dinner with about as heavy a misfortune as could well befall him, so far as his future in life was concerned. All he looked forward to and hoped for was lost to him: the aunt who, for so many years, had stood to him in place of all family, had suddenly thrown him off, and declared that she would see him no more; the allowance she had hitherto given him withdrawn, it was impossible he could continue to hold his place in his regiment. Should he determine not to return, it was desertion – should he go back, it must be to declare that he was a ruined man, and could only serve in the ranks. These were the thoughts he revolved while he dressed for dinner, and dressed, let it be owned, with peculiar care; but when the task had been accomplished, and he descended to the drawing-room, such was the elasticity of his young temperament, every thought of coming evil was merged in the sense of present enjoyment, and the merry laughter which he overheard as he opened the door, obliterated all notion that life had anything before him except what was agreeable and pleasant.

‘We want to know if you play croquet, Mr. O’Shea?’ said Nina as he entered. ‘And we want also to know, are you a captain, or a Rittmeister, or a major? You can scarcely be a colonel.’

‘Your last guess I answer first. I am only a lieutenant, and even that very lately. As to croquet, if it be not your foreign mode of pronouncing cricket, I never even saw it.’

‘It is not my foreign mode of pronouncing cricket, Herr Lieutenant,’ said she pertly, ‘but I guessed already you had never heard of it.’

‘It is an out-of-door affair,’ said Dick indolently, ‘made for the diffusion of worked petticoats and Balmoral boots.’

‘I should say it is the game of billiards brought down to universal suffrage and the million,’ lisped out Walpole.

‘Faith,’ cried old Kearney, ‘I’d say it was just football with a stick.’

‘At all events,’ said Kate, ‘we purpose to have a grand match to-morrow. Mr. Walpole and I are against Nina and Dick, and we are to draw lots for you, Mr. O’Shea.’

‘My position, if I understand it aright, is not a flattering one,’ said he, laughing.

‘We’ll take him,’ cried Nina at once. ‘I’ll give him a private lesson in the morning, and I’ll answer for his performance. These creatures,’ added she, in a whisper, ‘are so drilled in Austria, you can teach them anything.’

Now, as the words were spoken O’Shea caught them, and drawing close to her, said, ‘I do hope I’ll justify that flattering opinion.’ But her only recognition was a look of half-defiant astonishment at his boldness.

A very noisy discussion now ensued as to whether croquet was worthy to be called a game or not, and what were its laws and rules – points which Gorman followed with due attention, but very little profit; all Kate’s good sense and clearness being cruelly dashed by Nina’s ingenious interruptions and Walpole’s attempts to be smart and witty, even where opportunity scarcely offered the chance.

‘Next to looking on at the game,’ cried old Kearney at last, ‘the most tiresome thing I know of is to hear it talked over. Come, Nina, and give me a song.’

‘What shall it be, uncle?’ said she, as she opened the piano.

‘Something Irish, I’d say, if I were to choose for myself. We’ve plenty of old tunes, Mr. Walpole,’ said Kearney, turning to that gentleman, ‘that rebellion, as you call it, has never got hold of. There’s “Cushla Macree” and the “Cailan deas cruidhte na Mbo.”’

‘Very like hard swearing that,’ said Walpole to Nina; but his simper and his soft accent were only met by a cold blank look, as though she had not understood his liberty in addressing her. Indeed, in her distant manner, and even repelling coldness, there was what might have disconcerted any composure less consummate than his own. It was, however, evidently Walpole’s aim to assume that she felt her relation towards him, and not altogether without some cause; while she, on her part, desired to repel the insinuation by a show of utter indifference. She would willingly, in this contingency, have encouraged her cousin, Dick Kearney, and even led him on to little displays of attention; but Dick held aloof, as though not knowing the meaning of this favourable turn towards him. He would not be cheated by coquetry. How many men are of this temper, and who never understand that it is by surrendering ourselves to numberless little voluntary deceptions of this sort, we arrive at intimacies the most real and most truthful.

She next tried Gorman, and here her success was complete. All those womanly prettinesses, which are so many modes of displaying graceful attraction of voice, look, gesture, or attitude, were especially dear to him. Not only they gave beauty its chief charm, but they constituted a sort of game, whose address was quickness of eye, readiness of perception, prompt reply, and that refined tact that can follow out one thought in a conversation just as you follow a melody through a mass of variations.

Perhaps the young soldier did not yield himself the less readily to these captivations that Kate Kearney’s manner towards him was studiously cold and ceremonious.

‘The other girl is more like the old friend,’ muttered he, as he chatted on with her about Rome, and Florence, and Venice, imperceptibly gliding into the language which the names of places suggested.

‘If any had told me that I ever could have talked thus freely and openly with an Austrian soldier, I’d not have believed him,’ said she at length, ‘for all my sympathies in Italy were with the National party.’

‘But we were not the “Barbari” in your recollection, mademoiselle,’ said he. ‘We were out of Italy before you could have any feeling for either party.’

‘The tradition of all your cruelties has survived you, and I am sure, if you were wearing your white coat still, I’d hate you.’

‘You are giving me another reason to ask for a longer leave of absence,’ said he, bowing courteously.

‘And this leave of yours – how long does it last?’

‘I am afraid to own to myself. Wednesday fortnight is the end of it; that is, it gives me four days after that to reach Vienna.’

‘And presenting yourself in humble guise before your colonel, to say, “Ich melde mich gehorsamst.”’

‘Not exactly that – but something like it.’

‘I’ll be the Herr Oberst Lieutenant,’ said she, laughing; ‘so come forward now and clap your heels together, and let us hear how you utter your few syllables in true abject fashion. I’ll sit here, and receive you.’ As she spoke, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and assuming a look of intense hauteur and defiance, affected to stroke an imaginary moustache with one hand, while with the other she waved a haughty gesture of welcome.

‘I have outstayed my leave,’ muttered Gorman, in a tremulous tone. ‘I hope my colonel, with that bland mercy which characterises him, will forgive my fault, and let me ask his pardon.’ And with this, he knelt down on one knee before her, and kissed her hand.